His tone made me suspicious. âOf course youâll be there yourself.â âWell, Iâll certainly try. What I called up about is â"â"â âWait a minute,â I interrupted. âHow about saying youâll

come?â âWell, the fact is â" the truthof the matter is that Iâm staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with

them to-morrow. In fact,thereâs a sort of picnic or something. Of course Iâll do my very best to get away.â i hid an unrestrained âhuh!â and he must have

heard me, for he went on nervously: âWhat I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if itâd be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, theyâre

tennis shoes, and Iâm sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F. â"â"â I didnât hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the

receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby â" one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that

was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsbyâs liquor, and I should have known better than to call him.

The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfsheim; I couldnât seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open,

on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked âThe Swastika Holding Company, â and at first there didnât seem to be any one inside. But when Iâd shouted âhelloâ several times in

vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.

âNobodyâs in, â she said. âMr. Wolfsheimâs gone to Chicago.â The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle âThe

Rosary,â tunelessly, inside. âPlease say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him. â âI canât get him back from Chicago, can I?â

At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfsheimâs, called âStella!â from the other side of the door.âLeave your name on the desk, â she said quickly. âIâll

give it to him when he gets back.â âBut I know heâs there.â She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.

âYou young men think you can force your way in here any time,â she scolded. âWeâre getting sickantired of it. When I say heâs in Chicago,

heâs in Chicago.â I mentioned Gatsby. âOh â" h!â She looked at me over again. âWill you just â" What was your name?â She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfsheim stood solemnly

in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.

âMy memory goes back to whenI first met him, â he said. âA young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He

was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldnât buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he come into Winebrennerâs poolroom at .